


memories can be better than dreams.

by trinketh



Series: i just have a lot of feelings about cassandra de rolo [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Critical Role (Web Series) RPF
Genre: good sibling moments to balance out the rough ones, the sweet follow up i promised, vex is mentioned but not enough to be tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinketh/pseuds/trinketh
Summary: Her childhood with Percy hadn't been all bleak, and their future is even brighter.
Relationships: Cassandra de Rolo & Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III
Series: i just have a lot of feelings about cassandra de rolo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188557
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	memories can be better than dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> and the sweet pair to dreams & memories! This one draws from my dear Percy writer friend saying that Percy gave Cass hair ribbons on her birthday every year when they were kids, as well as the one @amareants sketch in that set that was Percy carrying a sleeping Cassandra, because oh my god how could I not

Dreams and memories are hard to hold onto for a reason, she thinks, fingers finishing tying back brown and white hair. Maybe they are so because if one holds onto them for too long, too tightly, they warp, become distorted reflections of what they once were, seen through the sheen of prejudice and current circumstances and what one wants to think a memory was.

Yes, dreams and memories are almost, almost like ribbons, she thinks, looking through her small collection of them for the one that feels most appropriate today. They can be bright, and colorful, and impart a meaning either intended or unintended. They can complete a set or completely turn it on its head, can slip from one’s grasp or hold on tightly, it all depends on the context.

Decision made, navy ribbon against pale skin, she pauses for a long moment, eyes focused on nothing but the scrap of fabric in her hands, and she remembers.

Percy had bought her this ribbon.

**

_ It’s her thirteenth birthday. Finally a teenager, she can’t help but to continually remind the older ones, feeling rather self-important, feeling as if she’s reached one of the milestones that will bring her closer to them, somehow, make even the oldest two (oldest three, if her motives are being honest with themselves) respect her, maybe accept her presence for more than a scant few minutes here or there. Little presents from each other on occasions such as this are not uncalled for, are not entirely uncommon, but the small box handed to her by Percival brings her a moment of pause. _

_ It isn’t that she thought that he’d forget, it isn’t that. With seven of them and their parents combined, it’s almost always someone’s birthday coming up, and they all at least attempt to put in some measure of effort, half-hearted though it occasionally can be. She isn’t entirely certain what it is, at the heart of it all. Maybe it’s the realities of their tenuous relationship, with her deep desire for his attention and his attention constantly desiring to be anywhere else. Maybe it’s her gradual acceptance that she’s not going to get what she wants from him, and that he doesn’t want her to try for it. Maybe it’s the fact that presents from Percival feel special, feel thought out in a different sort of way. Maybe it’s the fact that she wishes, she hopes it’s as special for him as it is for her. _

_ Thin fingers quickly untie the ribbon on the outside of the box -- tucked into her pocket for later use, of course, always better to have ribbon just in case -- and it’s opened, much to her delight, to display more ribbons. _

_ Cassandra has always liked ribbons -- she’s a young lady, it only feels right. She likes the color they add, the way they feel if she touches her hair, the air of grace she feels when she looks in the mirror. It’s hardly a secret, really, especially in the family itself, and especially to Percy, who tends to get her ribbons as a present whenever she’s owed one. Even so, she’s delighted to find a few carefully packaged, delicately placed ribbons in the box -- blue, all of them, different shades and textures. _

_ She takes a navy velvet ribbon out into her hand, feeling the texture of it in her hand, trying to swallow the bubbling joy at the gift to keep her face as calm and impassive as the de Rolos’ faces are supposed to be. She thinks she’s doing a fairly good job, fairly composed, before she glances up towards Percy, blue gaze crashing with blue gaze, and Cassandra could swear, she  _ swears _ , that there’s a flash of something soft, there, a ghost of a smile on his lips, maybe, some  _ hint _ of the fraternal affection that she’s been chasing after for her entire life. _

_ It’s gone after a second, but she’d seen it, and it’s almost a better birthday present than the ribbons. Almost. _

**

It’s a joyous event, going through the castle library with Percy and Vex, pulling out old books for children from when the blue - bloods had been young themselves (Cassandra may only be barely twenty years old, but when she looks at her eyes, her demeanor in the mirror, she hesitates to call herself young, any more). They’re looking for anything that may be suitable for Vesper -- the name of the little one soon to join them, because Vex’ahlia is convinced that it’s a girl, and thinking of the child with the name that has been chosen is a slow balance of pain at what has been lost, and joy of the reclaiming of a beloved name -- and, to be entirely honest, there aren’t a lot of options that seem appropriate. There’s a few primers that might come in useful when her niece --  _ her niece! _ \-- is a little bit older and ready to learn letters and numbers, but they’re at a distinct lack of storybooks that are anything short of either Fey or Zemnian in nature.

One of the Fey books strikes a familiar cover to Cassandra, one that had lived on the shelf in her own room for many years, before . . . well, before. The book is cracked open by her brother’s hands before Cassandra’s memory kicks into overdrive, reminding her why it’s so familiar -- she’d hidden a drawing in it, once, a slightly charred drawing of herself and Percy done by her own childish hand, that she’d attempted to give him and was rebuffed. Her pulse races in her hear in vague embarrassment at the idea of him finding it, but she’s too well composed to reach out and attempt to grab it before he finds it.

She’ll admit it, she takes the coward’s way out when it is offered, offered in the form of a servant needing the direction of one of the three residents of the room. She’s the closest to the door, and the least emotionally entwined in the search, so she’s the logical choice to go, and she can only feel half badly about the relief that leaks through her as she walks away down the hall.

She can’t help but to be grateful, now, that the drawing had survived all these years. It may cause a resurgence of awkwardness between herself and her brother, but that’s alright, she thinks -- there are so few reminders of the life they had once lived that isn’t scarred or bruised or bloody around the edges, and charred as the drawing may be, it’s one of the most intact remnants of children who stopped being able to be children before their time.

And, she’s happy to admit to herself, she trusts the closer bond that she’s built with Percy since then, trusts that it may bring a smile to his lips rather than the once-patented  _ Cassandra scowl _ .

**

_ She leaves him alone, most of the time, she really does -- or, at least, she tries to. She’s old enough to have her own lessons to learn, her own skills to hone, and these things keep her occupied for many of the hours that she’d once used to follow determinedly at Percy’s heels like a little duckling with its irritated mother duck. _

_ But sometimes old habits die hard, and sometimes young girls want the familiar, especially on stormy evenings that their governesses are ill and their mothers are out of town with their fathers. There’s few places that Percy could be in their home, and fewer that Cassandra would be confident enough to follow him into -- and her first stop ends up being her only one. Thick-socked feet pad into the library, dressing gown over her nightdress and soft plush toy tucked under her arm. _

_ She feels his eyes hit her as she enters, knows that she’s in the right place, and meets his gaze calmly. He’s seated close before the fire, both for light and for warmth, and she trudges slowly forward to sit on the carpet by his side, quiet and trying her ladylike posture skills for a long second, trying to prove herself as a good library companion, giving him the respect of not draping herself all over him. _

_ The warmth and the company and the quiet turn of pages soon lull her into a sense of security, the pitter-patter of rain softening to the point of sounding soothing, and her eyelids droop of their own accord, fluttering into darkness. _

_ When she stirs, it’s only halfway, and only because of the rocking motion that she senses, the warmth that she feels. It takes her half a second to realize where she is, what’s happening -- she’s being carried somewhere, stuffed toy against her body, her cheek against a shoulder and her arms around a neck, her weight supported by a set of arms that almost seem ill-equipped to carry her. And it’s . . . Percy’s shoulder, Percy’s neck, if the slightly exasperated sigh that escapes is any indication. Heavy lidded eyes crack open, if only to be sure -- and, yes, her guesses had been correct, as impossible as it seems. It’s late, she knows, it had been late before she’d fallen asleep, and Percy almost always stays up even later than her. _

_ The ride is over far before the still-sleepy child wants it to be, carried into the familiar confines of her room and placed onto the familiar feeling of her bed. She makes certain that her eyes are closed, no betrayal of the fact that she’s been a quarter awake for half of the walk. It feels like that should be it, that Percy’s done even more than he normally would, but she can feel him hesitate, can feel him hover for a long moment before she feels a blanket pulled over her, another moment of stillness before she hears his soft footfalls leave her room, close the door. _

_ As she falls back under the cover of sleep, she’s happy for what she’s gotten today, ready to count it in the nebulous space that sometimes exists between a dream and a win. _

**

Things between them are better, now. Two adults that have gone to hell and back, acknowledging and respecting and loving each other. Percival trusts her more than she deserves, more than she thinks is wise, sometimes, but the childish part of her heart that still yearns for his constant approval thrills at the idea of it.

But things better between the two of them doesn’t mean that her every day is good, that the weight of her two decades and the constant torment of the last few years doesn’t catch up with her to smother her, that she never twitches with the desire to break and burn the society that they’ve helped to build -- to be the agent of destruction to feel some kind of power over herself, again.

He’s learned her tells -- or maybe Vex has and tells him, she’s never sure, but it’s always him that comes to bring her back to her head as much as he can -- pulls her away from places she could cause harm, dedicates to her long moments where she knows that her feelings are acceptable, where she is struck by the fact that what was done to her was not her fault, where the de Rolo siblings sit with the ache of their losses and the choices that they have made, but they don’t sit with them alone.

They sit beside each other in the library’s chairs, moved to be side by side, Cassandra’s eyes focused on the fireplace before them -- empty, now, due to the season, but she thinks instead of memories of nights when fires crackled high and warmed her stone-chilled bones, a particular night where a favorite older brother had carried his youngest sister back to her bed.

Conversation has been abandoned, distractions have been attempted, and they both have decided instead to calmly devote themselves to the quietness of their situation, the simple gratefulness that they are able to be together in a way that they’d both once thought completely lost to them. It’s one thought, one alone, that begins to lift the corners of her dark mood -- the thought that there was once a little girl, fond of ribbons and her second-eldest brother, that would have longed for nothing more than to sit with him in this fond silence.


End file.
